


Hope Forgotten VI - Sentinel

by Parda



Series: The Hope Saga [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, Prophecy, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 04:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parda/pseuds/Parda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1996, Duncan returns to Seacouver and is surprised to find the Witch of Donan Woods waiting for him. Cassandra stands guard as Duncan battles the Voice of Death and the Prophecy is finally fulfilled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**... and a hope that you've forgotten ...** _

* * *

**Saturday Afternoon, 8 June 1996**  
**Cemetery, Seacouver**

* * *

Cassandra was waiting. Again. She was always waiting. She was so fucking tired of waiting. And yet there was nothing she could do except wait.

She sat on the ground under the shade of a great willow tree and watched the ants. They continued their ceaseless work, following unseen trails through the moss and over the roots. Several of the ants were tugging at the remains of a large butterfly wing. She didn't think it would fit through the entrance to the nest.

She had been waiting here at the cemetery for over an hour, ever since Duncan had been forced off Holy Ground by the policemen under Roland's influence. She didn't know where Duncan was. She didn't know where Roland was. Even if she had known, there was nothing she could do. Once battle was joined, no one could interfere in a fight between two Immortals. And most certainly she could not interfere in this particular fight. This fight that would determine her life. This fight that had already determined her life for the last three thousand years. She must wait.

When she had left Connor last Sunday she had flown to Paris, thinking to find Duncan there, but an older man had told her that Duncan had not been to his barge for several days. She did not know who Duncan's Watcher was in Europe, and she hadn't seen her own Watcher, either. She hadn't seen any Watchers at all. She had gone to New York and used a detective agency to track Duncan down. It had taken the detective agency three full days to tell her that Duncan had reservations on a flight to Seacouver for Friday. It had been a very long wait during those three days in the hotel room.

She had arrived in Seacouver yesterday morning and had waited in Duncan's loft all day. He had been very surprised to see her when he came home that night.

 

* * *

 **Friday Evening, 7 June 1996**  
**Duncan's Loft, Seacouver**

* * *

She stepped into the light and saw him blink as he realized who she was.

"Cassandra?" he asked in disbelief.

"Have I changed all that much?" She had not aged of course, and she had chosen a russet gown, the same color as the gown she had worn the last time she had seen him, three hundred and ninety years ago.

He shook his head and swallowed, then lowered his sword a fraction. "No."

"But you have." Her gaze swept over his with approval and appreciation. She had seen one or two pictures of him over the last century, procured for her by her unknowing Watchers, but they didn't capture the vitality of him, the sheer physical presence. He was different than Connor, a little taller, broader, darker of hair and eyes, more classically handsome. But, of course, they weren't really related. She had so often thought of them as clansmen, as brothers, that she forgot they were not truly kin. She smiled a little. "I often wondered what sort of man you'd become."

Duncan set his sword down and sat on the edge of the couch, still staring at her. He wrapped his arms about his knees. "I'm surprised you didn't just look in your crystal ball."

He sounded bitter and hurt. Cassandra sat down on the table in front of him. He wanted sympathy, and she would give it to him. "Your road's been hard, hasn't it?" Not nearly so hard as hers, nor so long. But he didn't need to hear about that. She didn't want to tell him about that.

He shrugged. "A lot's happened in four hundred years. But I survived."

"I knew you would," she said with confidence, striking a match. She watched it flare and die, seeing nothing but fire in the flame.

"Of course, you did," he said disparagingly.

Cassandra knew what that tone meant. What was the point of struggling and dying and hoping if everything was already determined? What was the point of hope? She did not know the answer.

Duncan asked, "How did you find me? Witchcraft?"

"Why bother?" she answered lightly. She knew he didn't believe in witchcraft anymore, and she wanted him to take her seriously. She set down the match and stood up. "This is the twentieth century. I used a detective agency."

She came to stand next to him, almost touching him. "I need your help, Duncan." The plea for assistance, the damsel in distress asking the valiant knight to be her champion. And it was true enough. From what she knew of Duncan MacLeod, it should be very effective. It wouldn't have worked with Connor MacLeod at all.

"Why?"

Cassandra swallowed hard; it was not often she spoke his name. "Roland Kantos," she said, giving his latest alias.

"One of us?"

She touched his cheek with the back of her hand, as she had touched the boy so many years before. No boy now, but a man, the man she had been waiting for. The man Roland had been waiting for. And Roland was coming. She looked away from Duncan then, dreading the long-awaited confrontation. "He's more than that. Much more."

She told him then, of Roland, of the Prophecy, but she could see that Duncan did not really believe her. She could see that he was tired from jet-lag, and he was bothered by something else as well. This was not a happy homecoming for him. She decided to wait until the morning to talk to him. He insisted that she take the bed, then he fell into an exhausted sleep on the couch. All night long she lay wide-eyed on the bed, waiting.

* * *

In the morning they drove out of Seacouver and parked near the shore. The morning was fine and cool, and they sat on the hood of Duncan's T-bird.

"It's not the Highlands," Duncan said, leaning back on his elbows and watching her, "but it has its charm."

Cassandra looked out at the empty water and listened to the lonesome cries of the birds. He seemed to expect her to say something. "It's beautiful. I can see why you want to stay." Then she turned to see him staring at her. "Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked with a small laugh, hoping to make him feel at ease with her.

Duncan smiled a little in return and sat up. "The last time I saw you, I was thirteen years old, and you were…a witch in the forest." He shook his head. "I went back into the forest a hundred times, but I never found you."

Cassandra looked down and smoothed her gown. He had found her. Several times.

Duncan continued, "I convinced myself that you were a dream."

No, she had convinced him that she had been a dream. He had been very susceptible to hypnosis then. She hoped that did not mean he would be very susceptible to the Voice now. Cassandra looked back at Duncan and said, "How could you know? How could you know that I was Immortal, or see what you would become?"

"But you knew?"

She heard the longing in his voice, carefully hidden but still apparent to one with her training. It was the same longing she had heard in Connor's voice, the need to know where he came from, the desire for a home, a family. She knew that feeling herself, but there was nothing she could do to satisfy that need.

However, she could give Duncan a sense of purpose. "I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you, that you would fulfill the Prophecy." She had known from the moment Connor had placed him in her arms, an infant nestled against her heart.

Duncan snorted. "Like you said, this is the twentieth century. I left prophecies behind with the witches and the fairies."

Cassandra leaned forward on the hood and said earnestly, "Duncan, listen to me." He must believe her. She did not know how long it would be until Roland found them. "The Prophecy tells of a Highland child, born on the Winter Solstice, who has gone through Darkness into Light, and survives to challenge the Voice of Death."

Duncan moved away from her. He knew what the Darkness was. He swung his legs off the hood and walked away from the car, taking refuge in sarcasm. "Really? And is this before or after I slay the dragon?"

"Duncan, this is real," she insisted, getting off the car and following him. "I've waited centuries for the time to be right." She had waited millennia.

He turned to look at her, remembering her words from the night before. "And is this Roland part of the Prophecy?"

Cassandra stood in front of him and looked into his eyes. He must believe her. "Yes."

"He's right behind you."

She went cold at his words. How did Duncan know that Roland had followed her through the centuries? "He always is," she admitted.

Suddenly she froze, careful to keep the fear from showing on her face as she felt that familiar prickling feeling at the back of her neck as an Immortal approached. She didn't want Duncan to see how much Roland frightened her. And it was Roland. Of course, it was Roland. Three thousand years of waiting and only a few hours to prepare Duncan. It was not enough time. She lifted her hands to her cheeks in the half-forgotten gesture of clairvoyance and said softly, "It's him."

Duncan did not listen to her when she had told him they must leave the shore immediately to escape from Roland. She watched in despair as Duncan went to confront him. For once, Roland had not even spared her a glance; he was completely focused on Duncan.

She could not hear their words, but she could see that Roland was toying with Duncan, enjoying his control over him, relishing his power. And when Roland raised his sword for the final blow that would have sliced Duncan's head from his shoulders, Cassandra screamed. It was a scream of power, of pain, a scream that reverberated within the skull and shattered the concentration and the will. Roland was especially vulnerable since he had been trained in listening. He stepped back, shaken, and Duncan fell from the cliff. Cassandra went to Duncan at the base of the cliff and hurried him away, followed by Roland's malevolent stare.

* * *

Back at the loft above the dojo, Duncan recovered enough to demand some answers. "What was that back there? What was he using?" He straightened up from the chair he was leaning on. "And don't tell me it's magic!"

"Call it what you like! The power of suggestion…!" She spoke more softly, remembering, "Or a trick, learned over a thousand years." It hadn't taken a thousand years to learn it, but Roland had much more than a thousand years to practice it.

"And is this trick something you taught him?"

"Roland was my student," she admitted. Duncan turned away from her in disgust and went to pour himself a drink. She could not bring herself to tell him anymore. It had been hard enough to tell Connor.

She spoke quickly, trying to reach out to him before he left her completely. "It was ages ago. Once he realized I had nothing left to teach him, he tried to kill me." That was true, in a way. Roland had known nothing about immortality and had thought she had nothing to give him. Except her money. And her body. And her life.

"I was stronger than him then." She had not really been stronger; she had run away. "I'm not anymore."

But that didn't matter now. Only the Prophecy mattered. She walked over to the liquor cabinet and took Duncan's arm. "It's the Prophecy, Duncan! You're the only one who can stop him!"

He looked at her incredulously. "You still believe that?"

"So far, it's all come true." All her visions came true, but not always the way she thought they would.

But he was interested in something else. "If you knew all that, why didn't you warn me? If you saw my future, did you see the life I'd lead?" He turned away from her, but his pain was clear in his voice and in the way he stood. "Did you see my father disown me?"

Cassandra had not seen that in her visions, but she had been there to hear Ould Margaret's words: "If you banish me thus, Ian MacLeod, I tell you now that the day will come when you will banish that…that changeling. And it will break your heart to do it, just as you are breaking my heart now." She saw that it had broken Duncan's heart as well, but there was nothing she could do.

He could not stand still with his anger and his pain. Duncan walked over behind the couch and took a large swallow of his drink. "Did you see Tessa die for a chunk of change?"

Cassandra had not seen that either, but she must stop him from dwelling on the past. "It's not that simple. I wish it were."

"No?" he demanded.

He had no idea what it was like. She stood next to him again and tried to explain. "I see only glimpses, only fragments, never the whole."

Duncan stared into her eyes and said very quietly, his voice still rough with unshed tears, "Do you see my death?"

"I see death, Duncan." She saw death all too frequently, in the flames, in her dreams, in her memories, in her visions, in her life. And she saw Death, too.

"Whose?"

"I don't know." That was the truth. There was a quickening coming soon; she had seen the rippling lightning and heard the tortured screams as a man stood within the burning outline of the triple crescents of the Goddess. But the figure was in darkness, and she could not see his face.

Moments later, Roland came in search of them again, and Cassandra was forced to use the Voice to get Duncan to safety at a cemetery. He did not like that. He did not like that at all.

"I don't like being controlled," Duncan told her angrily. "Not by you, not by Roland, not by anyone!" Duncan stopped at the bottom of the steps and refused to go with her.

Cassandra turned to face him, feeling a little more comfortable now that they were on Holy Ground at the cemetery. "What other choice was there? He would have killed you."

"Maybe not."

How could he be so blind? Connor had said Duncan was stubborn, but this was ridiculous. "Duncan, you felt his power," she said urgently.

"Power or no power, this is Holy Ground." Duncan walked up the steps and sat down on the stone wall. "He can't harm us here."

Cassandra took a deep breath and controlled her impatience. There was so little time to convince him. "And none of us can avoid our fate."

He only looked at her then, still uneasy with the entire idea of an ancient prophecy.

She repeated it for him, to make him see the inevitability. "An evil one will come, to vanquish all before him. Only a Highland Child, born on the Winter Solstice, who has seen both Darkness and Light can stop him. A child, and a man." She could tell that Duncan had no patience with ancient words. A battle was coming, and he wanted to be prepared.

"Teach me like you taught him," he demanded.

She recoiled from him, shaking. "I can't!" She would never teach another Immortal the Voice. But she would not tell him that, and he needed to hear a reason. "I can't. With Roland the gift was always there."

"Then what?" His voice was edged with desperation. "What do I do?"

"Use the Prophecy." The answer must be in there. It must. "If you're the man, then who's the child?" She put her hands on either side of his face and stared into his eyes, humming almost inaudibly, putting him under a trance again as she had done in Donan Woods.

It lasted only seconds, then he opened his eyes and blinked. "Did you do that?" he asked.

"I helped," she said quickly, dismissing it. "What happened? What did you see?" she asked eagerly.

"Me. As a child."

She felt a surge of excitement and grasped his hands. "The child, and the man." Connor had said that Duncan listened only to himself. He certainly hadn't listened much to her. "It's the Prophecy!"

But then policemen under Roland's control found them before they could discuss it anymore, and Duncan was forced to run. She was alone again, waiting.

Cassandra reached out and touched the gravestone near her, the stone cool and rough under her hand. It was a simple rectangle, engraved with a five-petaled rose in one corner and a cross in the other. The white marble was only slightly tinged with green and gray lichen and bore the simple legend "Brigit Mary Mahan 1925 - 1988." Another Brigit, Cassandra thought, remembering the other witch of Donan Woods. She traced the letters of the name. Perhaps it was a good omen. Or perhaps not.

She moved from the gravestone and sat down with her back against the willow tree, feeling the reassuring roughness of the bark supporting her. The tree was an old one for an American city, perhaps as old as Duncan. It must have escaped the axes of the early settlers. Though she appreciated many things about the last few centuries, she missed the trees and the forests that had been devastated in the name of progress. There were so few of the ancient trees left. There was so little of anything left.

Cassandra closed her eyes and listened to the light rustle of the leaves above her, the sounds of the birds nearby. She felt a small tickling on her hand and opened her eyes. A spider had swung down from a thread suspended on the branch above her. She watched as it crawled across the back of her hand, and thought with wonder of the vastly complicated interweaving of life that this one tree supported. There were beetles under the bark, and the nymphs of cicadas among the roots, squirrels and birds nesting in the branches, fungi in the ground, insects burrowing in the willow, and countless other creatures who lived and thrived and competed and died, all on this one tree. There was beauty and death and life and hope.

A squirrel chittered at her from a branch, and Cassandra opened her eyes. There was a pile of acorns near her, perhaps collected from one of the nearby oaks and left by a child. Cassandra tossed an acorn away from her. It took the squirrel several moments to decide it was safe to retrieve the nut.

A cheerful whistle from the tree branch in front of her made her glance up. Perhaps she not completely alone, she thought, looking at the robin, remembering the squirrel and the spider and the ants. They were still here. She looked down and saw that the ants had dragged the butterfly wing to one of their holes. She had been right; the wing did not fit.

But the ants had tried, hadn't they? And she could try, too. The vision of the child had worked once; maybe it could work again. She took several deep breaths and centered herself, feeling the earth below and the sky above, the presence of the tree nearby. She closed her eyes and thought of Duncan, thought of him then and now, thought of the child and the man. She thought of him as an infant in her arms, soft and warm against her heart. She thought of him then, the child, his face eager and ablaze as he spoke of becoming the chieftain of his clan, his smile of sunshine. She thought of him now, the man, a man whose eyes showed the darkness within, the sunshine shadowed as she had foreseen.

But still he was a champion, a white knight, a hero. Duncan had moved through the Darkness and into the Light. He was the fulfillment of the Prophecy. He would challenge the Voice of Death and win. Good must always triumph over Evil.

"Hello, witch."

Cassandra's eyes flew open in shock, and she scrambled to her feet. She knew that voice. She had heard it in her dreams, in her nightmares, over and over again for the past three thousand years. But this was no dream. He was here. Roland had found her again.


	2. Chapter 2

Roland stood at the far edge of the cemetery, just beyond sensing range, but his voice, his trained Voice, had carried clearly to her ears. She did not see his sword, but then, he knew he wouldn't need it against her. He approached her now, smiling. He always smiled when he saw her.

Cassandra stood with her back against the tree, her hand on the roughness of the bark, and waited.

He stopped a few paces away from her, and laid his hand on the edge of the tombstone of Brigit Mahan. He had cut his gray hair very short, and it made him look somehow older. He wore a dark shirt and pants, and a loose black leather coat hung to his knees. His clothing could not disguise his stockiness; he was almost bordering on plumpness. His dark gray eyes were alight with malicious glee as his gaze moved over her slowly and thoroughly. The small secretive smile on his face because an evil grimace of anticipation.

"It's been a long time, Cassandra."

Not long enough, she thought, but she remained silent. She knew better than to speak.

"Aberdeen, wasn't it? About three hundred and sixty years ago?" he asked casually. "You do remember that, don't you, Cassandra?" He laughed softly as he saw her swallow hard. "I can see that you do."

She did remember. All too clearly. Even more now than when she had been with Connor. The sight -and the scent- of Roland sickened her, and the sound of his voice made her feel as though maggots were crawling on the back of her neck, but she did not look away from him. She knew better than to do that, too. She remained where she was, her back and her hand against the tree, drawing strength from its presence, feeling the life within it.

Roland stopped smiling at her and looked down. A spider was crawling across the back of his hand, and Roland lifted it gently, held it delicately between thumb and forefinger. With his other hand he pulled off one of the spider's legs, very carefully and very slowly. He examined the spider curiously, and pulled off another leg, then another. When the spider had only one leg left, he replaced it on the tombstone and left it there, a helpless mutilated blob.

He smiled at her again. "And now I have the Highland foundling. You didn't protect him very well, did you, Cassandra?"

Cassandra carefully kept her face impassive, though she wondered despairingly where and how he had captured Duncan. Did Duncan even have his sword? Roland must at least give him that chance. He probably would; he was vain enough to want to win in a fight, not simply take Duncan's head. As long as he could use the Voice to tip the odds in his favor during the fight.

Roland stepped closer to her, moving in front of the tombstone. "But that's hardly a surprise. You didn't protect me, either."

Her eyes flickered just a little at that, but he saw it and took another step toward her. His smile broadened. "I brought you a present, Cassandra. A little late for Mother's Day, I'm afraid." He reached into his black leather coat and removed a large envelope, then offered it to her.

Cassandra made no move to take it. Now both of her hands were against the tree.

"No? My feelings are most dreadfully hurt, Mother." The last word came out twisted and tortured. "Shall I open it for you?" He took her silence for assent and removed three photographs. He held up the first for her inspection. "It's a lovely one of you, isn't it?"

Cassandra glanced at it quickly, then went back to staring at Roland. She had seen pictures like these before. It was of her, completely naked, coming from a shower and toweling dry her hair. She thought she recognized the room; it looked like the hotel she had stayed at in Madrid. Of course, all hotel rooms started to look alike after a time.

Roland turned the photo so he could examine it. "I've seen better of you, I think," he said judiciously. "Still, the hotel staff did the best they could." He smiled at Cassandra once again. "I've already shown it to several buyers; they are very interested. I did tell them they would have to wait." His smile disappeared as his eyes raked over her again. "Maybe for some time." He shook his head slightly. "We didn't quite finish in Aberdeen. I was surprised you left. You knew what would happen."

Cassandra had known, but she had had no choice.

"What was your servant girl's name? Beitris, wasn't it? It took her three days to die."

Cassandra hadn't wanted to know that. If she had stayed to keep Beitris alive, then Roland would have eventually gotten the truth about Duncan and Connor from her. Cassandra knew she would have told him. She knew how long it took him to break her. And she knew if Roland had found out about Duncan in Aberdeen, he would have tracked him down and killed him. Then there would simply be more girls, more children, more death, and no hope of ever stopping Roland. She had decided to sacrifice that one girl to save Duncan and to save all the others. I'm sorry, Beitris, Cassandra thought, but I had no choice.

"No matter. I have you now." His smile was back. "But there are some more pictures. Do you like this one?" He held up the second.

Cassandra looked at it and blinked, keeping her features empty, though she felt cold inside. The picture showed her and Connor, standing by her car at his farm in the Highlands. She had hoped his people had not followed her there. She had been there for less than a day.

"Another lover, Cassandra? And another MacLeod." He made a small clicking sound in disparagement. "Do they take turns? Or do you fuck both of them at the same time?" He grinned at her. "I've seen you do that."

Cassandra swallowed again, trying to banish the memories. Roland liked to watch nearly as much as he liked to do it himself. He had rented her to his "friends" for an evening or a day or a month, or offered her as "entertainment" during his parties. He didn't mind watching other men with her, as long as she wasn't the one to choose them. He couldn't stand her choosing her own lovers. He killed her lovers. He killed her love.

Now Roland examined the picture of Connor. "And another Immortal." The gleam of Connor's sword was clearly visible. "I didn't think you liked Immortal lovers, Cassandra. That was what you told me in Aberdeen."

She had lied to him in Aberdeen. She had told Roland that her lover was a mortal, a sailor who had just left her in a rage when she had told him she didn't want to see him anymore. After Roland had broken all of her fingers and both of her arms and she had told him the same story, he had believed her. Then he had beaten her to death, just for fun. When she had revived, he had raped her again. But it hadn't been a violent rape that time.

Roland had taken his time about it, touching her gently, caressing her even, in a horrible parody of the way Connor had teased her the day before. And she had responded to it eventually, grateful, in a way- that he wasn't hurting her, wanting it to be over, knowing that if she resisted he would beat her again, knowing that if she gave in he would finish with her sooner. Cassandra shook her head slightly and tried to forget. At least during a violent rape she could cling to some shreds of her self-respect. But Roland was still talking, and she knew better than not to listen.

"And now you have two Immortal lovers. And at the same time." He looked up from the picture of Connor. "Or have you even told them you're fucking both of them? Is it a secret? Do they know what a slut you are, Cassandra?"

She stared at him in silence.

He made that small clicking noise again and said, "Well, I can tell them. Or better yet, they can see for themselves. I've got Duncan. It won't be too hard to get the other one, too." He nodded, pleased with himself. "It will be just like old times. They can take turns. And then maybe I'll tell them to strangle you, too. But when they're done with you, who should kill the other one first? Should Connor kill Duncan? Or Duncan kill Connor? Hmmm?"

Cassandra closed her eyes briefly, trying to wipe the images from her mind. It was only for a moment, but Roland had seen that she was not looking at him. He hit her in the face, hard across the cheek, catching her ear with the blow.

Cassandra blinked back the tears of pain and waited for the ringing in her head to go away, for the Healing to soothe the ache and the burning.

But Roland was waiting too, and as soon as he saw the red marks on her face had faded he hit her again. Harder.

Cassandra swayed with the force of it and crumpled back against the tree, tasting her blood in her mouth. He had learned how to time his blows with great precision. She knew they would come slowly at first, giving her time to heal between each one. Then he would start to hit her more quickly, more violently, gradually decreasing the time between blows as the intensity increased. He was still in the early stages yet. "This is Holy Ground, Roland," she reminded him, when she felt she could speak clearly again.

He looked about him in mock surprise. "Why, so it is. But we're not fighting, Cassandra. You wouldn't fight me, would you?" He knew the answer to that. "We're just having a little discussion, and I'm simply driving my points home." He hit her again, this time on the other cheek.

Roland waited until Cassandra stood upright. "Do you think they would like to watch, too?" He held out the final picture.

A woman, blond with delicate features, and a boy, perhaps ten or eleven with dusky skin and dark hair and eyes. It looked like a picture from a wedding; the woman wore flowers in her hair, and the boy was uncomfortable in a suit. She did not recognize either of them. She looked back at Roland, her face totally impassive, the marks of his blows gone.

"Maybe I'll have Connor watch when Duncan fucks his wife. Then Connor can strangle her himself. Of course, she's not Immortal, so he can only kill her once. I'll have to make it good." He put the pictures back inside his coat. "I have people looking for them now; it shouldn't take long."

Cassandra kept her face calm, but she could not control the flare of panic and hatred in her eyes. So they were Alex and John, Connor's family. It must be an old picture; she wondered how Roland had gotten it. She felt sick; she should never have gone to see Connor.

Roland smiled at her reaction. "When I heard you were traveling quickly and had been in the Highlands last week, I knew something was happening. You haven't been to Scotland since 1630. Since Aberdeen."

A blow upon a bruise. He kept reminding her of things long past. She couldn't stand to look at him anymore, and she closed her eyes, not caring if he hit her again.

But his voice went on. "I wondered why you were in that worthless country back then. You must have been confused by the words of the prophecy, too. I thought I had tracked down the foundling child once in that forsaken wasteland they call the Highlands, but the stupid peasant woman told me that the one I sought was not there."

Cassandra felt a grim surge of satisfaction. She had long wondered how the people of Glenfinnan had managed to get rid of Roland without betraying Duncan to him. He must have asked the wrong question, and he was simply so arrogant that he could not conceive of making a mistake. He was convinced that no one could lie to him, so he had left.

What a vicious fool he was. She might as well tell him so, even though she knew he would hit her again. He would hit her anyway, no matter what she did. It would be worth it. She opened her eyes and stared at him in derision. "You always were arrogant and impatient, Roland. Duncan was right there, in the Highlands in 1606. You could have had him when he was thirteen if you hadn't been so stupid."

She didn't really see the blow coming so much as hear it, a whistling of the air as his fist landed on her nose, breaking it. She didn't see or hear his other fist, but she felt as he drove it into the pit of her stomach. She fell gasping to her knees, blood in her hands when she touched her nose.

She didn't see his foot as it came up and kicked her in the face, but she rolled toward the tree, curling herself around the trunk. His next kick caught her in the back in the kidneys, not as hard as he could, but enough to make her vision fade to black. He waited then, waited for her to heal. She knew what he expected; he had trained her well. She pushed herself up on her hands and knees, getting ready to stand and face him again. But Roland wasn't finished. He kicked her again, the point of his shoe catching her just below the ribs. It took her several minutes before she could stand after that. He waited until she was facing him, her expression calm, her hands against the tree trunk once again, waiting for him, waiting for him to punish her again. There was blood between her hands and the bark.

He stepped very close, not quite touching her. "You seem to have forgotten quite a bit, Cassandra." His hand reached out and lightly traced her cheekbone. "I'll have to teach you again, I see." He gently moved her hair away from her face. "And you've let your hair grow. Good."

His hand continued its caress of her face as he spoke softly. Cassandra hated his gentleness more than his violence. She never knew when he would become vicious again.

Roland continued, his hand moving down to her jaw. "It's been quite a while, I know. I almost found you in 1625, near Amsterdam. I did find some of your students. We burned the whole lot of them as witches. But, of course, you weren't there to see it. You left." The gentleness shifted to coldness, and his hand tightened on her throat. "You always leave."

Cassandra didn't blink, didn't flinch. He couldn't kill her on Holy Ground; she knew that. He was toying with her, tormenting her, enjoying his power over her. But when she looked into his gray eyes, so close to her own, she saw buried deep inside them a frightened little boy, and she realized with a painful mixture of pity and glee that he was afraid. Roland was here wasting time, delaying the battle with Duncan. He knew the prophecy would soon be fulfilled, and he was afraid. The pity and glee gave way to knowing sadness, and Cassandra's mask of composure became a look of compassion and understanding. Even, somehow, a memory of love. And the beginnings of forgiveness.

Roland blinked then, and his hand fell to his side. The Voice of Death was silent. The frightened little boy peered out at her from the depths of millennia of pain and abandonment and loneliness, screaming silently for someone to help him, someone to rescue him, someone to care. He didn't want to be alone anymore; he would make sure no one ever left him again.

"You need to leave now," she said softly, her voice gentle. She quelled the impulse to reach out and smooth his hair. She understood him now in a way she had never understood him before, understood his fear and his anger and his madness. She used the Voice to control him completely. "You must go and fight Duncan." Her words and her tone were exactly right to reach him, reach the little boy inside him.

Roland blinked again, and the little boy disappeared, sucked back into the pit of blood and pain and madness and drowned there alive, still screaming silently in terror, choking on blood. Roland walked away from her and left her there alone.

Cassandra stepped forward and looked at the spider, still lying on the top of the tombstone. Its one leg was moving feebly. "I'm sorry," she whispered and crushed it under her thumb. She went to the base of the tree and sat down, then leaned her back against the tree and closed her eyes, reaching out to the Highland foundling once again.

 

* * *

**Sunset**

* * *

She was standing in the darkness, waiting. The low-slanting rays of the setting sun cast long shadows in the room, shadows of the gratings in front of the windows, shadows of the bars in the center of the room, shadows of a cage. The room was empty and smelled of dust. She could not move; she could not speak. She could do nothing. She could only watch, and wait.

The door opened, and her son came in, walking in the long path of sunlight that streamed through the doorway into the dark. Roland had come.

But her champion was waiting, too. "Catch up on your beauty sleep?" Duncan asked, his voice charming and deadly, his sword at the ready as he crouched on a stack of wooden pallets.

Roland smiled, that small evil smile she had seen so many times throughout the years, that smile she hated. "We're making history, MacLeod," he said, as he took out his sword. "No point in rushing it." He rushed at Duncan, slashing at his feet.

Cassandra closed her eyes, unwilling to watch as the fight continued. She would not watch, but she could hear. She could hear the sounds of the sword-fight. She could hear the labored breathing of the combatants, the grunts and harsh gasps, the quick running footsteps, and the cold solid ringing of steel upon steel. And above all these sounds she could hear Roland's voice using the Voice, the Voice she had taught him.

He was playing with MacLeod, enjoying his power, enjoying this game. But the game was not over; the game was not won. His cruelty became confusion, and the taunting in his voice turned to anger and frustration as he exclaimed, "It cannot be!"

She opened her eyes and saw that Duncan was still watching, still waiting, but Roland was advancing, his sword high. She tried to speak, to whisper, but she had no voice. She must be silent. She could do nothing.

But Roland could speak, and he spoke the words she had wanted to say. "The prophecy -must be- fulfilled!"

O Goddess, please! The prophecy must be fulfilled! Good must triumph over Evil! Duncan was waiting, and as Roland came toward him, Duncan pivoted and slashed, his sword slicing into Roland, cutting deep.

Roland gasped, "Impossible!"

Another stroke, from hip-bone to breast-bone, gutting him, laying him open. Roland's eyes were wide and staring, his smile finally gone. Duncan raised his bloody sword again.

Cassandra could not speak; she could not move; and she could not bear to see. She could not watch the death of her son.

There was a sudden singing of the air as Duncan's blade swung round, a sodden thump, a slow exhalation of life as the body of her son crumpled to the ground. The sound of Duncan's breathing lay harsh above the silence, and Cassandra wished she could not hear.

Shadows of lightning flickered against her eyelids, and Cassandra slowly opened her eyes. There was lightning rising from the ground, lightning coming from the burning outline of the crescents, the triple crescents of the Lady, the symbol of the Goddess. Duncan stood within the center, his sword held high in both his hands, flat across the palms.

An offering there, from the man to the Goddess, as once there had been an offering from the woman to the child. Child no longer, but a man. The power and the lightning struck into him, tore through him, and he accepted the power of the Quickening, his tortured screams echoing long and loud in the confines of the room. As the lightning faded into fire, Cassandra felt the faintest of touches on her forehead, the forgotten memory of a kiss, and then the crescents were no more.

The waiting now was ended; the prophecy fulfilled.

Cassandra need no longer be silent; her voice was hers once more. She spoke softly, her voice falling into a measured cadence. "An evil one will come, to vanquish all before him. Only a Highland Child, born on the Winter Solstice, who has seen both Darkness and Light, can stop him. A child, and a man."

The visions started then, memories of his childhood, of his life and death and life. The fire burned behind him, warmth instead of heat. Watching from the darkness, Cassandra saw Duncan turning slowly, turning in the circle of the images, the circle of his life.

\- The young Duncan, his face alight with sunshine and hope, standing tall and proud, speaking of his dreams, "I will be a great warrior! I'll get to marry Debra Campbell."

\- And Debra herself, her promise of beauty fulfilled, smiling with love in her eyes, love for Duncan, love never attained, for Duncan watched her as she fell to her death, watched her as she left him alone, and the bracelet he had given her fell unnoticed to the ground.

\- His first death, a simple wound that stripped his body of life; Duncan lying back, confusion and pain in his eyes before they closed for that last time.

\- Duncan reviving, looking up, his hands bloody and his body whole, speaking to his father, "It ... it is a miracle!"

\- And Ian MacLeod, staring with horror and revulsion, backing away in fear, casting him out-as Cassandra had known he would do -his face and voice terrified as he looked at the demon he had raised as his son. "You're no bairn o' mine! You're not my son!"

\- Duncan running after his father, the man he had thought was his father, running and stumbling on the sharp stones of the road, his voice anguished and panicked as he pleaded for an answer, an answer no one could give. "Where do I come from? Where? WHERE?"

\- Duncan as a child again, earnest and innocent, speaking the truth he believed, "You will win, because you're good, and Good must always triumph over Evil," while Duncan as a man saw more battles, more fighting, more bleeding and dying, the sunshine gone from him now in the darkness of killing, an orgy of killing and blood.

\- Duncan leaving, forsaking the land of his birth and his death and going on alone.

The visions faded into shadows, and Cassandra spoke once more. "A child. And a man."

The sun disappeared, and the fire burned behind him, casting its own shadows and its own light into the cage. But Duncan was in darkness, and she could not see his face.

Cassandra awoke from the dream of fire and shadows and blood. The Prophecy had been fulfilled, and the Voice of Death was forever silent. Cassandra leaned her head against the willow tree and wept.

* * *

As the darkness started to gather, she felt the sensation of an approaching Immortal. She did not move; she did not turn around. She watched as the ants tugged the last of the butterfly wing into their nest. Only when the wing had disappeared did she stand and turn to walk the last few steps to Duncan.

They returned to Duncan's loft from the Mexican restaurant after dark. Cassandra couldn't quite remember what or if she had eaten, though she knew she had had two margaritas. Or maybe three. They had been good. Life was good.

In the bathroom of Duncan's loft she dialed Connor's number on her cell phone. It rang five times before it was answered.

"Yes?"

No name, no polite welcome, no asking "May I help you?" It was definitely Connor. "Connor, it's Cassandra." He did not acknowledge her name, he simply waited. This last week must have been a long one for him. "Roland's dead."

A short pause, and she thought she heard a faint sigh of relief. "Good," came his dry voice. "Duncan?"

"He's fine. He's in the next room. Do you want to talk to him?"

Another pause, a little longer this time. "No."

Stubborn man. Pig-headed fool. He would wait for Duncan to come to him. And the longer he waited, the worse it would be. Perhaps she could do something about that, something to help. She had said she would help him in another thing as well. "About the training, do you still want to do that?" She was the only one left who knew the Voice.

"Yes."

A very definite yes. Connor didn't like anyone having such power over him, even her. Especially her. She was not surprised. "It will take at least a month, Connor, maybe two. We'll need to work at it every day."

"I have a house in Edinburgh," he said, after a moment. "Next week?"

She hesitated. "There's something I need to do first. How about two weeks?"

"Two," he agreed. "Call me."

"I'll call you." Cassandra took a deep breath and said, "Connor, I ... ." But she was talking to no one; he was gone. She stared at the phone for a moment before putting it back in her bag.

She took a quick shower and dressed in a white silk gown that skimmed over her body. She looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she had changed now that her world had changed. She looked the same, except a little around the eyes. Less haunted, perhaps? At least the fear was gone.

When she came into the loft, she saw that Duncan had been busy. Most of the furniture covers had been put away; the place looked much more comfortable. He was coming back home.

Duncan was sitting near the table, staring at a candle flame with a far-away look in his eyes. She watched him for a moment, knowing he was thinking about the child. Himself as a child. He snuffed out the candle.

"What would you have said to him?" she asked softly as she came closer.

He did not look at her. "I don't know. Maybe I could have warned him about the life he was going to lead."

"What could you have said? Don't feel? Don't grow?" She perched on the arm of the couch. "Don't live with hope?" She knew all too well what a life without hope was like.

"Probably not." He looked at her briefly and stood up. "So," he said, as he walked over to the bookshelf, "the prophecy is fulfilled. Now you leave."

He was right. She could leave. Maybe she should leave. She wondered if Connor had contacted Alex yet and told her to come home. But that shouldn't matter to her. Connor didn't want her or need her. He had his own family.

She was tired of living in the past; she was tired of living for the future. Just now, just this once, she wanted to live for the present, without any thoughts or concerns or plots or schemes or lies. She didn't want to think about anything else but what was happening right now. She didn't need to use Duncan or manipulate him anymore; she could simply be with him for the night. Finally, she was free. She had made a promise to him long ago in Donan Woods, a promise to the man he would become, a hope for herself through all the long years. And he was a man now. He was very much a man. She decided she wasn't ready to go yet.

She walked over to Duncan and laid her hands on his chest. He felt very warm. She watched him carefully to see if he objected. He certainly didn't seem to mind. "Well, there is - one more thing," she said softly, as she started to unbutton his shirt.

Duncan waited until she had undone three of the buttons before he asked, "Is this part of the prophecy?"

"No," she said, somewhat breathlessly, pushing his shirt from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. She ran her hands up over his shoulders and down his back, marveling at the smoothness of his skin. "This one's for me." It had been a very long time since she had done something purely for herself, something that wasn't part of the prophecy. It was intoxicating, frightening. It was a feeling of freedom, a feeling of responsibility. It was a choice.

She chose to kiss him, tasting the sharpness of the salsa still on his lips. His lips were still soft and warm, as they had been all those years ago, but he did not tense in surprise now.

But he did pull back, and he placed his hand gently under her chin.

Cassandra froze; she hated being touched that way. "Is something wrong?" she asked carefully, trying to still the fear that coiled within her, hoping he wouldn't turn her away and leave her alone, knowing she would have to accept it if he did.

Duncan shook his head. "No." He touched her face, tracing the same path Roland had traced earlier in the cemetery, but not touching her the same way at all. His hand moved down to her neck and then to her shoulder, sliding her dress down and away in a whisper of silk. He said softly, "Just making sure you're real," as he bent his head and kissed the softness of her neck.

Cassandra closed her eyes as the warmth from him enveloped her. She needed this, and she deserved this. She gave herself to the moment, and to him.

* * *

In the morning, she surprised herself by singing as she showered. She had not sung for centuries. Ever since Aberdeen. There were a lot of things she hadn't done since Aberdeen. Such as making love. She slowly and pleasurably massaged the soap into a lather on her leg. It had been a long time since she had taken pleasure in something so basic as washing herself. After Aberdeen, she had not wanted to feel her body, not wanted to be connected to such pain. She had lived in her body, not with it.

Last night had been a reawakening for her, a rebirth. Duncan was a tremendously caring person in bed. Even though they really did not know each other, even though she knew they did not love each other, last night they had made love between them. Duncan had made her feel whole as a woman again; he had worshipped her body with his own, touched her everywhere and loved every part of her. He had made love to her easily and joyously because she was a woman, and he was a man. Last night, she had been Woman, and he had been Man, and it had been as simple and profound as that. The act of love had been a healing sacrament between them, a sacred joy, the way it was meant to be. She felt alive and holy and whole again, and deliciously clean for the first time in centuries.

She rinsed off the soap, delighting in the feel of the water on her bare skin, then luxuriating in the roughness of the towel as she rubbed herself dry. She stroked the skin on the inside of her arm gently, enjoying it. She remembered all too well that only yesterday she had gritted her teeth at the same touch. She knew that Connor could never have done this for her, never healed her in this way, never accepted her so completely. There was too much pain between them. She closed her eyes briefly, resolving that someday she would try to heal those wounds.

But that was in the future, and she was interested in today. She dressed quickly and brushed her hair, then joined Duncan at the table for breakfast. He had gone out early that morning and bought bagels and coffee and fruit; there had been no time to go shopping for groceries yesterday.

They spoke of various things as they ate - movies and books and chess. When they were sipping their second cup of coffee she said quietly, "You should call Connor, Duncan."

He stared at her, his coffee forgotten. "You know Connor?"

"I was the witch of Donan Woods since before your grandmother's time," she reminded him. "And you were not the only one to go wandering in the forest."

He nodded slightly, obviously wondering what else Connor had wandered into. She was not about to tell him, and she doubted if Connor would either. At least, she was relatively sure Connor wouldn't tell him. Not the entire story anyway. She continued, "Or better yet, you should go see him."

"See him?" Duncan shook his head. He had just come home from Europe.

"Connor is worried about you."

"Worried?" Duncan snorted slightly. "Connor never worries about me."

Did he really believe that? Probably. Stubborn Scots. Cassandra set her coffee down and laid her hand on his arm. She said gently, "You need to tell him about Sean Burns, Duncan." She saw Duncan's eyes change then, go flat and black and hard, and she finally saw the resemblance between the two MacLeods.

Duncan shook his head and looked away, but Cassandra persisted. "He needs to know, and you need to talk." The hardness in his eyes softened to pain and something else. Shame? Guilt? She ought to recognize them by now; she had seen them often enough in mirrors. "Promise me you'll go, Duncan. Soon."

He swallowed hard. "I need to talk to someone else first," he said.

Probably Richie, thought Cassandra, remembering the name Duncan had called with such an agonizing blend of hope and despair the first night she had been in his loft. She wondered what had passed between them, what else Duncan had done while the Darkness had him. His road had indeed been hard, and she knew it would be harder still. The prophecy was not yet completely fulfilled, but she could not warn him. She knew Duncan understood the perils of such foreknowledge now. Nor could she help him. He must face it alone.

Cassandra reached over and took his hand in hers, hoping to comfort him for both what had happened and what was to come. "But you will see him," she said.

"Yes," he agreed, "I'll go see Connor."

And so would she. But not just yet. She kissed Duncan lightly on the cheek and left.


	3. Pilgrim

_It is here we must begin_  
_To seek the wisdom of the children_  
_And the graceful way of flowers in the wind._

* * *

 **18 June 1996**  
**The Isle of Lesbos**

* * *

When the plane landed outside the town of Mitilini on the Isle of Lesbos, Cassandra waited until the rest of the passengers had disembarked. She retrieved her carefully wrapped sword at the baggage claim; everything else she needed was in her backpack.

Her seatmate from the airplane came over as Cassandra was heading for the door. "Are you staying here in Mitilini?" the woman asked.

Cassandra stopped politely. "I'm going to Thermi."

"Oh, are you taking the bus?"

"No, I'm going to walk."

"Walk?" Her mouth opened in a soft O. "But, the heat ...!"

"It's all right," said Cassandra. "As I said, I've been here before."

Cassandra left the airport and started walking. The woman had been right; it was hot, and the exhaust from the cars gave her a headache. She was glad when she reached the outskirts of the city. Then there was only dust.

She walked for nearly four hours until she reached Thermi. The small town lay along the sweeping curve of the beach, and Cassandra checked into her room at the Hotel Votsala. She stayed at the hotel until dark, walking slowly in the gardens that surrounded the long low red building, eating a lemon as she rested under the shade of the grape vines. When night fell, she returned to her room and dressed in a simple gown of gray. She left the hotel, carrying her backpack and her sword.

She walked up the hill until she reached the ruins of the temple. The stars had shifted since Cassandra had last stood there; the world had changed. The sisterhood was destroyed, knowledge lost, forgotten, erased. The cave of prophecy was gone, swept away by flood and earthquake. The temple lay before her in deserted silence, its columns broken and burned.

She sat in front of a large broken stone as she watched the moon rise over the ocean. All that night, and through the next day, she waited at the ruins of the temple, silent and alone.

As the sun set behind the hills on the second day, she opened her bag and took out a small round biscuit, a bottle of wine, and a carefully packed box of thirteen exquisitely tiny cups. They were Ch'ai ware, eggshell-thin and with a glaze like the sky after rain. She had helped to make them in China nearly a thousand years before, in the workshop of the great Hui-tsung. The cups were, as Connor had said once about another type of porcelain, very rare and very expensive. She did not think there was any other Ch'ai ware left in the world. After she had left China she had hidden these cups in a cave in Australia. They had stayed there for almost a thousand years; she had retrieved them only last week.

On the ground before the fallen stone she set the cups in a circle, then placed the biscuit in the center. Her sword lay behind her. She knelt and poured out wine for the Mother, the dark liquid soaking into the ground. Then she carefully filled each cup; the deep-red of the wine showed through the translucent porcelain.

She lifted the first cup and held it gently between her hands. "For you, Lady," she whispered. "Please forgive me for betraying you, for disappointing you."

She poured the wine onto the ground, then hurled the cup against the fallen altar. It shattered against the stone. The next cup. "For you, Marit and Kalia, and all our sisters." The wine trickled out slowly. "Forgive me for not protecting you, for leading Roland to you." Again she hurled the cup.

The third cup. "For you, Xanthos-Lucius-Ramirez-Tak-Ne." She poured out the wine. "Forgive me for using you, for bringing you to the place of your death." More shards against the stone.

"For you, Aileen. For deceiving you and bringing sorrow into your life."

And so it went. For Ould Margaret. For Mary MacLeod. For Ian MacLeod. A cup for Connor. A cup for Duncan. A cup for families and friends and the inhabitants of Troy. A cup for Beitris and for all those whose names she did not know.

Only two cups left. She hesitated, then lifted one of the cups. "For you, Roland." The ground was saturated now; the wine dripped into pools and rippled outward. "Forgive me, my son. I tried ... I wanted ..." She bowed her head. "I truly wanted to be a good mother to you," she whispered, "and I did the best I could." She pressed the cup against her heart and held it there a long time before she hurled it against the stone.

The white fragments of the cups lay like shattered bone atop the blood-dark ground. Cassandra knelt silently beside them as the moon set behind the trees, and the stars wheeled above. The sky began to lighten in the east above the sea.

She reached for the soul-cake biscuit, now dark with soaked wine. It crumbled in her hands when she picked it up. She scattered the pieces on the ground, an offering of food to the dead. Though she had not been to a Catholic Mass in centuries, the words of the liturgy came back to her. "Hoc est enim corpus meum." This is my body. She had given her body in her quest, both willingly and unwillingly. She would reclaim her body for herself now.

The final cup was waiting, filled with dark red wine. She picked up the cup and held the delicate porcelain in her hands. It felt cool and smooth under her fingertips. "His est enim calix sanguinis mei." This is the chalice of my blood. She had given her blood, too.

"Non sum digna." I am not worthy. "Sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea." But only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.

The word had been said. She was worthy; her soul had been healed. She had been healed by Connor's acceptance and Duncan's caring, and by her own forgiveness of Roland. She had helped to heal herself. She could forgive herself.

Cassandra lifted the cup to her lips and drank, and the taste of the wine was good. She shattered the cup against the stone. The stillness of the night air gave way to the first faint breezes of dawn, and she lifted her head and stared out to the sea.

In the whispers of the wind she heard the voices of forgiveness. The prophecy had been fulfilled, and now she was free. She could now start living, without the need for lying, without the need for hate that had haunted her so long. She could live the life she wanted, she could laugh, and she could love, if she could just remember how.

Cassandra stood and stretched, then breathed deeply of the cool morning air. She put the empty wine bottle and her wrapped sword into her backpack, then walked down the hill, away from the ruins. Lifting above the horizon, the sun disappeared into the waiting blood-red clouds.

* * *

 _Though the cities start to crumble,_  
_and the towers fall around us,_  
_The sun is slowly fading,_  
_and it's colder than the sea._

 _It is written from the desert_  
_to the mountains they shall lead us,_  
_By the hand and by the heart,_  
_they will comfort you and me,_

 _In their innocence and trusting,_  
_they will teach us to be free._

John Denver - "Rhymes and Reasons"

 

* * *

**Thus ends**

**HOPE FORGOTTEN -** **Cassandra and the Prophecy**

* * *

Cassandra's story is continued in

**HOPE REMEMBERED -** **Cassandra and the Horsemen**

and

**HOPE TRIUMPHANT - Cassandra and the Sisterhood**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT THE STORY: Cassandra has been the topic of many a post on the list. So many posts, in fact, that I started wondering why she did what she did. And so I wrote this story. Feedback is very much appreciated! I've had a good time writing it. I've learned a lot, met some very nice helpful people, and made some really good friends. I hope you enjoyed reading it. -Parda
> 
> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:  
> \- to Frank Herbert and his book "Dune."  
> \- to John Denver for his song "Rhymes and Reasons."  
> \- to Diefenbaker on the TV series "Due South."  
> \- to my daughter's kitten Sassy Catkin.  
> \- to my sister's huskies Oban and Tulach. (Yes, she named her dog after the whisky.)  
> \- to the re-enactors at "St. Marie's Citty," Maryland, who gave me a great deal of information about daily life in the 1600s.  
> \- to Sandra McDonald and Debi Moseley, whose writing gave me some ideas for this story. I would like to thank them for giving me permission to borrow from their stories.  
> \- to Nightsky, who has really neat ideas about Methos.  
> \- to Kate, who educated me about Scotch, whiskey, whisky, and bourbon, and helped me find an ancient Greek play.  
> \- to Dan and Arch, who introduced me to the fine art of appreciating good whisky one warm summer night.  
> \- to Cathy Butterfield, who mentioned Noah and reminded me of Sean Connery's voice: "deep and salty and warm as the wine-dark depths of the Mediterranean sea."  
> \- to Kyra Zandberg, who gave me a lot of information about herbs, both for cooking and healing.  
> \- to Susan A. Coveney, who shared with me some of her extensive knowledge about 17th century clothing.  
> \- to Jeannine, who listened patiently while I burbled on and on about this story.
> 
> TO BETA READERS: Julia Walter, Verite, Terry Odell, Alice Hill, Sara Sarasohn, Susan A. Coveney, Nightsky, Cathy Butterfield, Kyra Zandberg Thanks for finding all those typos and missing/wrong/repeated/inappropriate words, and for the good suggestions to make the story work better.
> 
> TO ALPHA READERS:  
> * Janine Shahinian, who explained to me what a theme is, made me figure out where in the world I was going with this, got me started, and helped me with those writing techniques.  
> * Annie, who taught me about ellipses, punctuation, point of view, and adjunct adverbs.  
> * Keith R. A. DeCandido, who told me to cut scenes which shouldn't be there and served as unknowing inspiration for some of the dialog.
> 
> TO *THE* ALPHA READERS  
> * Vi Moreau, who noticed discrepancies and logistical problems, remembered details, offered encouragement and ideas, and kept me from putting too many words into Connor's mouth.  
> * Bridget Mintz Testa, who introduced me to the joys of Connor watching, read the story over and over, helped patch and fill in plot holes, understood the characters better than I did, and helped me see it through to the end. Happy Birthday, B! I couldn't have done this without you. Many, many exuberant thanks!
> 
> DISCLAIMERS: The Highlander universe and all the characters you recognize are not mine. They are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, and Davis/Panzer. Some of the dialog is directly from the first Highlander movie, and from the fifth season episodes "Prophecy," "Comes a Horseman," and "Revelations 6:8." The Highlander Universe, the characters, and the dialog are used without permission, but no copyright infringement is intended. This story was not written for profit. The characters of Aileen MacLeod and Ould Margaret are mine. Cassandra's story is continued in "Hope Remembered" and "Hope Triumphant".
> 
> This story was written two years before the fourth HL movie was released.
> 
> ~~~~~  
> OPENING QUOTES The words at the beginning of the different parts of the story are all from John Denver's song "Rhymes and Reasons." The title of the story "Hope Forgotten" is also from the song. This paragraph at the end of the story:
> 
> In the whispers of the wind she heard the voices of forgiveness.  
> The prophecy had been fulfilled, and now she was free.  
> She could now start living, without the need for lying,  
> without the need for hate that had haunted her so long.  
> She could laugh, and she could love, if she could just remember how.
> 
> may be sung to the tune of "Rhymes and Reasons."


End file.
